Our Story Was Not Told (but torn apart by greedy hands)
by cinnab3an
Summary: There's a new hunter in town with a thirst for violence. He doesn't just kill non-humans, he slaughters them, and anyone-monster or otherwise-who's involved with the target. This time he's set sights on the Beacon Hills pack-and the pack isn't just comprised of wolves. Stiles really doesn't stand much of a chance.
1. Chapter 1

"If I'd known to expect a guest," Stiles says, "I would've made another sandwich. Shame. You should'a called ahead. RSVP, you know." He's ridiculously relieved that his voice isn't betraying any of the fear he can feel racing through him, uses the motion of setting his plate down on the kitchen counter to hide the tremble in his hands. The hunter grins, though, long and crooked, making it pretty clear that he's more than aware of Stiles' terror. Bastard. Stiles is kind of tired of people who are stronger than him being complete assholes—how is it fair that the only ones with the power to make themselves listened to use that power to be _mean_? If Stiles had the kind of muscle this hunter's packing, he'd use it to—to rescue kittens from a tree, maybe, or help little old ladies cross the street. Not, fucking, _tear down some teenager's door and terrorize him in his kitchen_. That is way beyond the level of shitty Stiles can see himself reach. Jackson, maybe, cause he's a douche.

Not as big a douche as Hunter McAssFace, because said douche waits for Stiles to become deeply involved in his mind tangent and therefor thoroughly distracted before lunging forward and swiping the plate off the counter. It shatters against the wall and Stiles watches the bits of ceramic from the plate scatter across the floor while trying desperately not to do something wimpy, like cry. He wants to cry.

Ordinarily, he'd be a lot more composed in the face of an intruder, even one supernaturally inclined, because he may not be a werewolf but he's certainly not the weak little human that all bad guys seem to think he is, but this guy? He may be human and a hunter, but there is no doubt in Stiles' mind as to who the monster is. McAssFace (also known as Douchey Sir Douche-Town, or Mr. Fuck Face, or Nick Risting) has a code, as per Hunter Law(as dictated by the Argents, who he trusts sometimes but not always with his life), but it's skewed massively. Guy doesn't discriminate between species, like, _at all_ , and not just between non-humans—like, do I want to stab a wolf or a banshee today? You know what, why not both!—because Stiles has seen photographic evidence of a pair of little girls, brutally slaughtered by You-Know-Hunterly-Who, torn into messy and bloody pieces. Only one of them had been a werewolf, but that hadn't stopped him, oh no. It hadn't stopped him either when the Boy Scouts Troop he'd gunned down in some forest had only one vampire and one werecat. The rest were human, and they'd all been eight and nine years old. Hunter McAssFace apparently operates under the belief that anything non-human dies, and any human nearby the non-human dies too.

Mr. Fuck Face had come into Beacon Hills three days ago, and Chris Argent himself had looked more than a little unsettled when he'd come to Derek's apartment to warn the pack. He'd been hunting them, but had yet to make a move. Derek, knowing of McAssFace's propensity for killing involved humans, had tried to warn Stiles, Allison, and Lydia to stay away, and Stiles—he hadn't really thought there was reason to be worried.

Look at him now. Cornered in his own house by the evilest of evils himself. Gerard may have been a shifty fucker who didn't care whether the teenager he was torturing was human or wolf, but he had been careful to stay away from the line of what would've been too much for Stiles to bear, so that granted him near puppy status compared to this violent beast of a human.

(privately, Nick Risting reminds Stiles a bit of Kate Argent. However, Jackson had said that _once_ and the stricken look that immediately came over Derek's face quickly convinced him and the others not to bring it up again.)

Stiles is saved—could you call it that? He is absolutely not safe—from the humiliation of tears when Hunter McAssFace wipes his beefy hands off on his crimson stained pants to free them of ceramic plate remains and reaches for him. _Reaches_ being a loose term, because when Stiles makes to dodge one of those aforementioned beefy hands, the other one snags on his shirt and fucking _drags him over the counter top._ Stiles crashes into the wall much like the plate and his sandwich had—he even lands on the mess, but doesn't have time to gasp over the many bits of shattered plate slicing and scraping into his body before he's picked up by the throat and slammed into the wall again.

And again.

And again.

He sees the wall coming toward him one last time, but blacks out before he can meet it.

Xxx

DickHead McGee is squatting in front of Stiles when he comes to. A twisted grin splits across his face; his disgustingly white teeth flash at Stiles and it almost feels like a threat, much like the wicked gleam in his dark eyes.  
Stiles can't see all that well—one of his, well, both of his eyes feel swollen, but he's sure one of them is actually swollen nearly shut thanks to the multiple dates his face had with the kitchen wall—but he does spot the huge hand as it comes for him, and makes to lean away before contact, which.

Bad idea. No, seriously. Bad. Idea. Stiles barely has time to flinch before his meager vision is overcome with spots of dizziness. He has to try and choke in a quick breath because he's near ready to vomit. _Too many head injuries_ , Stiles acknowledges. _Of course, that's what happens when a severely dickish hunter who's absolutely too proud of his own strength decides to acquaint his soft head with the tiled kitchen wall._

"Wonderful to see you've joined the party," Nick the Dick says, because he's not just _evil_ , apparently, but also _creepy_. Like, Peter Hale levels of creepy, only worse because _Peter Hale wasn't the one who'd beat Stiles unconscious, kidnapped him, and then squatted in front of him with—oh holy_ fuck _, was that an electronic hand saw buzzing away in his already terrifying hands?_

"Hrrng," Stiles replies, because he may be choking on his terror but he's never let that silence him before and, hey, why start now, now that his kidnapper is currently holding a fucking _saw_ waiting, no doubt, to tear him apart? Self-preservation, have we met?

Nick reaches for his face again with the hand not holding the saw, and though Stiles tries again to escape the contact, he's stopped by a multitude of things. Firstly, the goddamn chains and manacles apparently binding his hands and feet to the cold concrete floor where his aching body lays. Secondly, because he's not just slumped on the floor but also leaned haphazardly against the cold concrete wall like some sort of ironic joke—Stiles, meet Wall, oh wait you've already met?—he's got some sort of collar wrapped around his throat, pushing uncomfortably every time he swallows or breathes in too heavily, chained to a metal ring about three feet from the ground. The length of the chain connecting him to the ring is too short for him to lie down fully or stand up, leaving Stiles in the truly awkward position of being half draped against the wall. It's also too short for him to back away from Nick's hand, so it connects with his cheek—and _that_ feels bruised and swollen too, like his eyes, _thank you_ wall—softly, almost gently, before—

—pulling back and then rearing forward again, quick as a whip and striking just as hard. Stiles feels his body arch under the pain of the slap, feels his mouth fall open on what was surely a shriek, but can't really register anything that's not the rippling pain of the hit. Nick watches, waits for him to recover and still, and then he does it again, to the other cheek.

"Not sure I like this party," Stiles groans as soon as he can feel his mouth again. It may be tingling, and, bleeding? God, he hopes not. He really hates how used he's become to the taste of blood, but that's what you get for playing wolf as often as he does, Stiles supposes.

He closes his eyes in a spectacular, full body wince when Shithole The Massive takes hold of his face again, but this time, there's no immediate retribution. No slap. No hit at all. The dude just holds his hand there, like Stiles' face is some sort of really fancy hand pillow or whatever. Which it's not. He wants to squirm away, but he can't on account of two things—one, he _really_ doesn't wanna get punched in his jaw, not when it's still tender from the last two blows and he's not sure when the cavalry will arrive, and two, there's only so much give the chains will allow and he's currently pretty close to pushing the limit.

It isn't until the hunter's thumb strokes across his cheek and down to his mouth, pressing in and pushing it _open, holy shit_ , that Stiles begins to fear for something else entirely different from the usual maiming and ripping that his kidnappers tend to go for. Which, he's older than _Peter_ for fuck's sake, that's goddamn disgusting. Stiles is in high school! He just wants to live life like one of his peers, complaining about low grades and missed dates and cheating boyfriends or girlfriends. Instead, here he is. Having some creepy ass violent motherfucker _finger_ him—holy shit, he drops that choice of words faster than Lydia drops shoes that have gone out of style. Nobody's getting fingered.  
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut tighter when Nick rubs the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip while humming to himself.

"I guess I can see why he wants his paws all over you," he says nonchalantly, as if those words don't deserve any further fucking explanation at all (hint: they do), and then slides the hand up Stiles' face so that the thumb is resting beneath one of his eyes, presses down. "Open."

Stiles allows himself a moment to pretend that he's anywhere near brave enough to refuse, just long enough so that the pressure under his eye grows a bit, and then he obeys. And, dammit, there are tears in his eyes that he can't hold back anymore as soon as he can actually see the hunger in the hunter's gaze and recognize it as hunger for something that isn't violence. One rolls down his cheek, over Nick's hand, and then he wipes the rest of them away in a gesture that would be sweet and gentle if it weren't so fucking disgusting.

"Beautiful," Nick tells him, before taking his hand away. Stiles doesn't try to hide the way he sags in relief. The wall holds him up like a good friend would, and Stiles halfheartedly thanks it for the support. A minute ago he was cursing it for its chains, and now they're bros. Hurrah.

Nick watches him for a few seconds, and then he stands up. The saw is still in his hands and Stiles keeps a wary eye on it until it's flung haphazardly over the guy's shoulders, then for the first time takes in his surroundings.

After it had been proven that Stiles was prime kidnapping-and-using-for-bait material, Derek had impressed on him the importance of learning his location as soon as possible.

 _"If it takes too long for us to get to you," he'd said, "you need to be aware of where you are so that your kidnapper cannot use that as an advantage over you."_

"Whatever," Stiles had scoffed, but he'd taken the advice to heart, and knew that Derek knew it too. If the alpha could see, now, that Stiles had been conscious for a good while before even taking a good look around, he'd be so pissed.

Not that looking around earlier would've done Stiles any more good, seeing as the party of two seems to be taking place in some building he's never been in before. It's big, like the gym at school, and nearly empty save for him, the hunter, and the ominous metal table that is covered with things Stiles can't see. He's got the feeling that the saw being out of Nick's hand makes him no safer, that he has a whole array of weapons waiting just out of Stiles' sight.

The thought makes him want to shudder, but he holds it in. He's shown enough weakness in front of the guy already with crying, although it's impossible for him to not know how absolutely terrified he is.

Not that it matters much, because Nick's just moving toward the table, patting his hands against his thighs and humming some jaunty little tune to himself.

"Pretty little thing," he goes on, as his hands move out of Stiles' line of sight. "I think I might just keep you for myself after I take care of the trash." He glances over his shoulder at the boy chained to the wall and something demented gleams in his eyes. "Doesn't mean I can't mark you up just a bit while we wait. I bet the blood scent will just move things along faster. It just—" he gestures wildly with one hand, and Stiles feels his stomach sink when he registers the giant ass carving knife in it. "—really appeals to the animal in em, you know?' The knife clatters to the metal table and he reaches for something else.

It's a bigger knife, because fuck Stiles' life, and all that. He'd been trying so hard to not react to the hunter's words, because that way lies madness and bad touches and Stiles wants neither, is that too much to ask? Now he gets a knife so huge it's practically a sword, at least the length of his entire forearm, and Stiles just—fuck, what did he do to deserve this?

"See this, sweet thing?" AssFuck twirls the blade in his hands. If it weren't making Stiles' stomach curdle out of terror, it would probably be awfully impressive. Either way, he doesn't answer. "Oh, don't be afraid, now. It's not for you. This is a little something I made myself, a good while ago, when I first took up pest control. Know what it's made of?" The blade twists and flicks, catching light from the solitary bulb hanging from the ceiling and throwing it around the bare room. The metal of it is unfamiliar in its color and build, though it's not like Stiles really knows all that much about knives. "Silver and iron, forged together in the most remarkable of heats, with a handle of mountain ash, and a core of it running through the blade, too. It's been glazed with wolf's bane for this particular problem. Nothing has survived this beauty, and nothing ever will."

Stiles looks at the weapon and pictures it thrust through the body of one of his friends. The wolf's bane alone could kill most of them, if the stab itself didn't first. He wants to count himself lucky that it doesn't seem to have his name on it, but—aw, hell. Nothing else is going right for him, he might as well call it.

Nick puts the almost-sword back on the table much more gently than he had the carving knife, and Stiles dares to hope that—nothing. He's not naïve enough to jinx himself now. It does him no good hoping or otherwise, because the next time Nick turns around he's got a his big meaty hand wrapped around a bowie knife. He can't even feel good over the extreme downsizing, because this would be a prime example of _size doesn't matter_. A little thing like that can do all sorts of damage on its own.

"This one's for you, sweet one. And please, do not hold back. I can't wait to hear the sounds you make."

And of course, _of fucking course_ , he doesn't cross the room to stab or slice Stiles like your typical psychopath.

No, Asshole Is My Name and Murder Is My Game bends his arm back smoothly and then straight up throws the blade across the room like it's some kind of ninja star, and it buries itself into the meat of Stiles' shoulder with ease, straight to the hilt.

He can't help it.

He screams.

Xxx

It only gets worse from there.

Xxx

For the first half hour or so(dude took his fucking watch and Stiles didn't take his Adderall, so time is wibbly wobbly and nebulous here, he's just guessing), Nick the Dick crosses the room to throw the knife at Stiles. It sucks because he meets his mark every time, but at least his mark tends to be his lesser vital places. Even though it's all still fairly calculated, because the hits on his shoulders ensure that he can't use his arms, and the ones to his thigh means he can't try to run. The one low on his side is perhaps the most shallow, which Stiles knows he has to be grateful for, because even a centimeter deeper and he's sure he'd be dead.

As it is, the wounds he already have yet to stop, though they're still bleeding sluggishly. He doubts they'd be enough to kill him, if his pack came anytime soon.  
Unfortunately, they don't seem to be coming.

And Nick seems to have tired of throwing.

"You know," he says, after a few throws where the butt of the knife hits the wall next to Stiles' head and makes him flinch horribly, "I've always wondered what it might be like to carve a pattern, a _design_ , into a living canvas. Blood red would be so lovely a paint on someone with skin as pale as yours. I think I might give it a try."

Xxx

When he finally grows bored of slicing lines and swirls into the skin of Stiles' arms and chest, he picks out a different kind of blade. It's shaped almost like a spoon, and a bit like the scrapers Stiles remembers his mother using with him to clean out pumpkin guts on the Halloweens of his tender youth. If those scrapers were wickedly sharp, and used to scrape back human skin, that is.

Because apparently that kind of blade is used for _peeling_. It digs into his shoulder and separates the skin from the muscle and is ultimately the most awful thing Stiles thinks he's ever felt.

He screams and screams and screams.

And then he blacks out.

Xxx

Stiles has to wait a long moment after waking up before he can see again. At some point after he'd lost consciousness (again) the hunter must've decided it was alright to break his previously established yet unspoken rule that Stiles' face was off limits (the slaps didn't count, obviously) because he can feel the sting of cuts on his forehead and one cheek, as well as the sticky slide of drying blood as it dripped into his eyes. Already it's difficult enough to keep them open. The blood catches in his eyelashes and sticks them together, making it almost too hard for his exhausted body to force them open.

Of course, when he finally is able to see again, he really wishes he couldn't.

Nick doesn't seem to have noticed that Stiles is awake. They're facing one another but the older man has his gaze cast to the far right. Stiles glances once in the direction to determine if it's another threat, but it only turns out to be what appears to be the sole entrance to the building they're in. He's too tired and in too much pain to focus on the empty doorway and why it might be of so much interest.

Not when his own eyes are drawn to the bowie knife and scraping blade—scalpel? He's never seen one before, but that might be it—that Nick is holding in either hand. Both are still dripping with his own blood, but the truly horrifying and sickening part of it is every few seconds when Nick opens his mouth a bit and runs his tongue up or across one of the blades.

It takes Stiles' hurting mind a few beats to recognize that the hunter is _licking up his blood_ but hey, it's so not his fault that he isn't firing on all cylinders at the moment, no sirree.

Example numero uno: he tries to reach a hand up to wipe his eyes clean, forgetting a) that he's chained down, b)that there's a goddamn hole in his shoulder, and c) that the rattle of the chains and the groan he lets out at the pain might be enough to let McStabby know that his knife throwing target practice has joined the party again.

As it goes, Nick only allows a bloody grin to split across his face, in acknowledgement of Stiles' actions. He doesn't turn, though.

"How pleased am I, to see those lovely eyes of yours again," he says, practically oozing poisonous charm. It makes Stiles want to vomit almost as much as the pain _all over his body_ does.

He doesn't even know what happened to him while he was out, and he just _knows_ that something _did_ happen, because Nick is exactly the person who would continue to torture someone else even after said someone else was already unconscious from the pain. Stiles is afraid, because the majority of him may be in pain but he's kinda numb around the shallow stab in his gut. And in a few other places, but the gut wound scares him the most. He's not positive, and he'd absolutely rather not look, but he thinks the wound might've been deepened a bit while he was out. Or something like that.

Just hang right there and look pretty, sweet thing," Nick chuckles. He takes one last languid swipe of the tongue across each blade before tossing them both onto the metal table and picking up the monster killing almost sword. "This ain't gonna take long. Though, I haven't decided yet." He swings the weapon up so the flat end of the blade rests against his shoulder, turns to look at Stiles, who is starting to feel like he's getting closer and closer to that inevitable and debilitating panic attack. "Oh, have I not piqued your curiosity yet? Do you not want to know what I'm deciding?"

You're not supposed to entertain the guy with the gun. Or maybe you are. Screw it, Stiles is dealing with major blood loss and some serious stress, he deserves to be cut some slack with his decision making skills. If the dude wants him to guess something, he can be damn certain that he's gonna guess away. Whatever keeps the rest of him safe, that's what he's looking for.

"You're deciding whether you think dogs or cats are man's best friend?" He calls out, because if he's gonna die alone and bloody he's gonna die with some dignity. Hunter McShitty may take his blood and his life(but hopefully not his life), but he will never take Stiles' pizazz and all that jazz away from him.

"Charming." The flat look in Nick's eyes implies that it is anything but. "Really, though. I can't decide whether I want to keep you for myself and have you witness as I kill the mutts one by one, or slaughter you first and have them all watch me do it."

Ah. Good. It's always good to have options. _of course, those options are usually not, fucking, stay put and get slaughtered while his friends watch, or watch as his friends get slaughtered themselves._

"What do you think?"

Stiles is saved from having to answer when a deep roar suddenly rips through the air around them. At first, Stiles thinks it's just echoing around and around the wide open empty space, but the changes in pitch and length of howls let him know that there are multiple wolves coming to rescue him.

"hurray," he mumbles. "Now this party can really get started."

Xxx

What happens next is this: Derek comes bursting through the door first. His nostrils are flared so dramatically that Stiles can see them, even from the distance that's easily fifty feet between them. His eyes are also glowing blindingly, ridiculously bright.

He takes one clearly visible whiff of the air inside the concrete building before he charges toward Nick, leaning against the metal table and tapping the blade of the knife against one of the table's legs.

The moment Nick steps forward to meet him, Derek drops to the ground and rolls away, hands clamped over his ears.

The very next second, a horrible shriek splits the air apart. _Lydia_ , Stiles thinks. He'd cover his ears to, if not for aforementioned reasons a and b. As it is, he gets to watch as Nick, unprepared for the blast of banshee scream(though Stiles has to wonder how unprepared he could be if he came to Beacon Hills to hunt the Hale pack), stumbles and hits the ground hard.

A second later, Derek is tackling him. Stiles hopes to see the alpha rip him to shreds, right there, right in front of him, but then Nick brings the knife sword up and jabs the handle of it into Derek's temple with a thunk so solid, Stiles can hear it from where he lays.

Derek only falters for a heartbeat but the heartbeat is more than long enough for Nick to kick him up and off. In a flash, Nick moves to Stiles' side. He's still got the nearly sword and it takes him less than a second to have the blade pressed up under the boy's chin. A bead of blood trickles down Stiles' throat—he knows, he can feel it when it settles into the jut of his collarbone and dries.

Derek is crouching where he was thrown, eyes on the trail left by the bead of blood. They burn with a steady red fury, and his mouth is hanging open like he cannot bear to keep his rage inside. His fangs are bared, every single one of them, and if Stiles didn't know the guy he'd probably be scared shitless at the terrifying image he's presenting. As it is, he's endured enough fear today. At this point, he's experiencing relief so massive it's loosened all his bones. He doesn't think he could move if he tried, not if all the chains were gone and the whole of his body otherwise healed.

Speaking of which, Nick drops his other hand, the one not tucking the fucking awful knife into his throat, onto Stiles' shoulder—right over the hole from where he threw the bowie. Stiles bites back his cry of pain until Nick digs his fingers into the hole, and it feels like fire alights inside of him. It's far more painful than anything else he's experienced at the hands—literally—of the monster. Even his skin being peeled back was less agonizing.

Derek's probably saying something, judging from the way his mouth is moving, but Stiles' attention is locked solely on the agony in his shoulder and the words being whispered into his ear.

"I told you not to hold back, sweet thing," Nick purrs. It's nasty, and so is the way he pushes harder into the wound. Stiles is ready to black out again by the time he pulls his hand back, dripping with fresh blood. He thinks he does, a little bit; he blinks and when his eyes open again Derek's not alone. Stiles and Isaac stand on either side of him, and Lydia is directly behind him. All of their eyes are trained on Stiles except for Derek, who's glaring at Nick like—like he's kicked Derek's puppy. Or whatever.

Forgive Stiles for being unable to think up something quick, he's a little loopy from blood loss. He thinks he deserves a pass.

"I deserve a fucking pass," he groans, and then regrets it when his throat bobs over the knife and ends up pushing farther enough into it that the solitary bead of blood becomes a steady trickle. "Fuck," he says, with feeling, and then, " _fuck,_ " because apparently he never learns. He wants to tilt his head away but he's got a knife on one side and Sir DickHead the Great on the other. There's nowhere safe for him to go, not yet. He tries to communicate with his eyes that Derek and the rest of the wolves need to hurry up and proceed with the rescuing, but, you know, it seems like his body has chosen now to finally get on with the swelling that those first few slaps and hits had created, and his eyes can't seem to open up wide enough to say what he needs them to say.

Derek growls, something low and furious, and Stiles feels it vibrate through the bones of his chest when the other wolves take it up.

"Cute," Nick says, though his tone shows once again that he disagrees, "but I think I've made my choice. Don't worry, pretty one. I'll make it quick." He runs a comforting—though it's truly anything but—hand down Stiles' face, starting from the cut on his forehead and trailing all the way down until he's got his hand cupped over his mouth. His thumb starts pushing in again and Derek snarls wordlessly. "Down, mutt." The disgust in Nick's voice turns to something that is some sickening twist on awed. "Although, I _can_ see what the fuss is all about. Why you wanted this one so much. Why you ran _so quickly_ to get him back, even though you knew you didn't stand a chance." He leans over and buries his face in Stiles' hair, uncaring of the sweat and blood that's no doubt caking it all together. Stiles wrinkles his nose in disgust at the thought and then squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can without making the pain of them grow too bad when Nick inhales loudly.

"Let him go!" Scott shouts. Isaac whines loudly in response, but if the others have anything to say, Stiles can't hear. "He's human! Don't you have a code?"

"Code doesn't apply to humans who run with wolves. No matter how pretty they are." Stiles decides that his least favorite way of hearing Nick's voice is when it's directly behind him, muffled by his hair. He hates it. Judging by hiss that comes from in front of them, the wolves hate it too. "Well, Alpha? Don't you have anything to say? Or do you let your betas speak for you?"

"I am going to rip you into pieces," Derek promises, because he is the current world champion for Not Answering The Direct Question He's Been Asked. Stiles has to pry his eyes open at his tone—it's so dangerous and dark, full of more loathing and rage than he's ever heard someone speak with before. Isaac and Scott both have a hand on either of Derek's shoulders, and they're clearly holding him back although the looks on their faces suggest they'd be more than happy to let him go. Derek himself is nearly trembling with visible fury. His eyes are focused on the spot where Nick must be breathing in a mouthful of Stiles' hair, but they dash down every few seconds to take in the chains and the injuries; the holes in his shoulders and the rips in his arms and face are bleeding the most right now. He hopes that none of the wolves can see the wound in his stomach. The numbness is spreading. He has mixed feelings about that.

"Are you, now." Nick doesn't sound convinced. He presses the knife in harder. "I noticed that you didn't answer either of my questions. Or what I was saying earlier." Derek shifts in place, throwing off his betas' hands angrily. His eyes flit to meet Stiles' and there's something in there, something crazy, something _animalistic,_ that makes his heartbeat rachet up, and then his face just.

Falls. Collapses. Stiles likes to believe he's fluent in the language of Derek Hale's Eyebrows; right now he has no idea what they're saying. Or, he has one, a tiny one, but it makes no sense and he doesn't dare to believe it, not now, not given the circumstances.

Those are the Derek Hale _Begging_ Eyebrows, and Stiles has seen them used less than a handful of times before. Both times, Derek was trying to con the last bit of food away from Stiles, since the whole 'Alpha Growl I Am Scary And You Will Obey' thing didn't work on him, not being a wolf and all.

Derek opens his mouth and then falters. Stiles watches him struggle to say something and tries not to feel impatient. Then again, he does have a _fucking sword_ cutting into his damn throat after a few hours of being continuously tortured. Once more, he thinks he deserves a fucking pass.

It's not until after Stiles has given up on watching Derek speak, lolling his head as carefully as he can, eyes closed, that he speaks.

"Please."

Stiles is taken aback. Judging by the nearly imperceptible twitch of the knife against his throat, so is Nick. Stiles feels his mouth go dry at the emotion laid bare in Derek's voice, the sincerity behind the plea. He starts to swallow, for lack of any other response, and winces at the way the movement pushes into the blade and produces more blood. Really, it's a miracle he hasn't managed to get himself killed yet today, given the number of times he's provoked the psychotic man with weapons and flirted the line with literally slitting his throat.

Nick makes a thoughtful sound into Stiles' hair before pulling back enough to rest his chin on top of it. "Please, what?"

Stiles expects this to set Derek off again, make him growl or snarl or go all fierce 'I Will Rip You To Pieces With My Teeth And I Will Enjoy It' on him, but what it actually does is pull out some awful sounding whine. Derek sinks to the concrete floor like a puppet with strings cut and the betas follow him down not even a second later. Lydia hesitates for a moment and then she, too, is crouching down.

"Let him go," Derek says quietly. "Please let him go. He's human."

"He is," Nick agrees. The knife slides down from Stiles' throat without lifting away from his skin, until Nick presses the tip against the neck of Stiles' shirt and uses the blade to push the shirt away, exposing his bloodied collarbone. "Such a fine one, too, of course. All that gorgeous pale skin just begging to be bruised and broken. Those _eyes_. So expressive. I only regret that i won't be able to look into them and see the life as it leaves, what with them being as swollen as they are. An unfortunate move on my part, I suppose. But I notice you keep _avoiding_ a very important subject, wolf. Which makes me wonder, whether the best kind of torture to inflict on you would be to keep him for myself after I kill you, have him the way you clearly _haven't_ , or take his life in front of you as you watch, unable to do anything."

"Don't hurt him," Scott begs. Stiles wants to gesture at all of himself in case Scott has managed to miss the fact that his body looks like swiss cheese dipped in red wine, but he's actually finding it a lot harder to move than it was a second ago. A minute ago. A while ago?

Time slows down.

Nick says something above him, the knife pushes into him a little bit wherever the point of contact is, but Stiles can't really hear or feel much at this point. The numbness from the stab in his gut has finally, unfortunately, seemingly, spread elsewhere.

Black crawls into the corner of his already spotty vision.

He's aware of only a few things—the faint beat that he knows is his heat, slowing down; the horrible low murmur of Nick speaking just above him; and the harsh light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, stealing every last bit of his waning attention piece by piece until the last thing Stiles sees is the great, blinding white.

He hears his mother's voice, calling his name—his full name, his real name—sounding soft and sweet and sad.

He hears something high and horrible, like an angel screaming.

Then everything goes black again, for the last time.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time Stiles wakes up, he... doesn't. Not really.

One moment he's immersed in the aching comfort of his mother's barely there presence, feeling weightless and free. Then something pops and, suddenly, he's blinking his eyes open to a sight he'd never wanted to see again.

He absently looks up at the lone bulb hanging from the ceiling of the building he'd spent hours being tortured in. The recognition alone has him grateful he's already lying down, otherwise he's sure he'd collapse to the ground or something like that. Which then leads to the question of how he managed to get horizontal when he'd spend the day memorably chained upright to the wall. Speaking of which, the chains and shackles seem to be missing. Not that he's complaining about their absence, of course.

Stiles sits up. At first, he thinks the numbness of his gut wound has managed to spread throughout the rest of his body; he feels odd and unnatural, but without any of the pain that should be present from the action of getting upright, what with the numerous injuries and all. Then he peels back the collar of his shirt to peer at the stab wound in one shoulder to find unblemished skin. His other shoulder, too, is fine. And when he looks at his stomach, confused, there's no gaping hole there, either.

For all intents and purposes, it seems he's healed.

"Hip hip hooray," Stiles mutters, because he's grateful as fuck that he's gone from bruised and battered to A-Okay, but something feels off. His palms are cold and clammy when he rubs them together, and his heartbeat is thrumming wildly beneath his skin. Come to think of it, his pulse is less of a _dub-dub_ and more of a long, constant vibration. A hum like electricity. Or maybe that's the bulb burning from above.

He rubs his hands over his face carefully, before sitting up straighter and looking around.

The pack is—there, across the building. They're huddled around something; Derek and Scott crouched on the ground with Lydia, Isaac, and Allison standing over them. He doesn't recall Allison being there before, but, to be fair, he'd had a lot on his mind when his friends had burst in. Counting familiar faces wasn't his biggest priority at the time.

Between the pack huddle and himself is the metal table, lying upside down. The weapons that had been spread across it are now strewn around it, and Stiles is pretty fucking thankful he only found himself on the business end of a few knives, given what else Nick had in his arsenal.

Speaking of which, the devil himself is nowhere in sight. Stiles looks left, right, up and then down just to be sure he won't be caught unawares again, but. Yeah. He's gone.

He heaves a huge fucking sigh of relief, pathetically grateful that the motion doesn't immobilize him with pain. He's got—no shitting clue? Why he's healed? But he doesn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, not really.

"You have no idea how good it is to see you guys," he says to the pack as he gets to his feet. Mobility is so wonderful and exciting that he spends a few extra moments just marveling over it and talking before he realizes his friends... aren't... responding.

"Yes, hello, assholes? I don't appreciate your wolfy silent treatment, ok? C'mon, Allison, I thought you were nicer than... this." He trails off once it occurs to him that perhaps the problem is not that they are _ignoring_ him (even though they are, those assholes) but rather that they. Can't hear him. Like, _at all_ , because otherwise a wince or too would've occurred after the scream he just let out to see if they were fucking with him or not.

 _Not_ , as it turns out, and Stiles can't even find it in himself to be relieved that his friends aren't ignoring the pathetic human that managed to get himself kidnapped and tortured for hours (no matter how Evil & Scary™ Hunter McAssFace is, Stiles still got caught like a rabbit in a trap, and he hates that he can so easily be compared to prey when he spends his life running with predators) because the alternative of _they can't hear me at all_ combined with _I went to sleep practically swimming in my own blood while my body resembled a human sized chunk of swiss cheese and then woke up clean and cozy_ just spells out all the bad things, really, it does.

He doesn't—ok, fuck, yeah he's afraid to really think about what it means. Except—his fingers snap, once, with glee, as he figures it out. Lots of people have out of body experiences, so that's clearly what's going on. His body, ripe and delirious with pain, did his consciousness a solid and kicked it out to take it all on its own. That's why he's no longer in pain, that's why he's not where he remembers himself being.

The simple solution is simple, really, but in a matter of seconds after deciding that his intangibility is _ephemeral_ (hah, take that Scott) his electric heartbeat already feels like it's slowing down. The sour tang of panic at the back of his throat has dimmed and now he's just appropriately worried that he's out of his body and unable to communicate with the few people who can fix him.

"Wonder what I could get away with saying, knowing you guys are ear-blind to me. Deaf. Whatever." Stiles rolls his shoulders, determined to make the best of what hopefully won't turn out to be a miserable situation, and marches over to his friends. "But before I unleash the glorious Stilinski Charm, which you will unfortunately be unable to hear, I'd like to make a special request. See, I'm not too fond of the location, and also I was totally invested in a sandwich before I—"

He cuts himself off, or, well, _Scott_ cuts him off when he erupts into a wrecked howl that vibrates into Stiles' very soul, and Stiles snaps his mouth shut. Partly because saying something when somebody else is communicating is _quite rude, thank you very much Scott_ , and partly because the grief in Scott's voice hits him like one of Nick's knives.

It gets worse, of course, when he's finally a few steps away from everybody and close enough to make out details, from Allison pressing a hand to one of Scott's shoulders, from Isaac holding on to Derek, from Lydia clutching at her chest, when Isaac tilts his head back and joins Scott in his cry. A similar wail comes from the door and Stiles turns his head, surprised, to see Jackson and Boyd standing in the doorway, Erica with one hand clamped over her mouth and a tear spilling from one eye. He wonders how much time must've passed between his—falling unconscious, and now, so that the number of pack in the building has doubled since he first saw them, though not for long, because the group howl is doing very bad things to his electric heart.

Stiles has seen the videos before where some photographer manages to catch a wolf pack mourning one of its fallen members. He's heard the sorrow in the collective voices as they swirled together into a single sad song and felt their pain in his heart every time.  
Hearing his pack, now, as they sing in grief, is worse than any one of the knives Nick pushed into his body. It makes it harder to hold onto his out of body theory, but he can't let go, not yet, not until he stumbles into the throng of wolves and humans, wondering why Derek is silent when even Erica who's covered her mouth and Allison and Lydia who're just as human as Stiles is have tilted their heads back and howled. Not until he sinks to the ground beside Derek, who's himself crouching in a massive smear of blood that even Scott next to him is avoiding. Not until his eyes slide from Derek's bowed head to his tense shoulders to his shaking arms to his trembling hands to the body lying stiff and still beneath them surrounded by a mess of shredded metal.

His body.

Fuck.

He shifts into a graceless crouch next to Derek, wanting to offer whatever comfort he's capable of even though he's doubtlessly invisible to them as well, but his gaze is stuck entirely on his. Fuck, his _corpse_. Stiles is _dead_. He can't believe it.

"Wow," he mumbles, once again fighting off tears. This time though, he's gotta be justified. Fuckin hell, he's _dead_. That was never supposed to happen. "When I said out of body, this... isn't what I meant. _Shit._ This can't be happening."

It takes a little bit of staring for Stiles to realize his bonds are gone. The body's wrists are rubbed red and raw from all the effort he wasted thrashing from agony. The throat is crisscrossed with cuts that still trickle blood, and they're bruised from the collar.

Now that he's no longer chained to the wall and floor, Stiles would expect his body to be horizontal like he was when he woke up a few feet away from it. Instead it's draped half across Derek's lap, like Stiles is sleeping and Derek's thighs are his pillows. Derek's got one hand fisted in the front of his shirt and the other cupping the back of his head, supporting him as gently as one might a baby. Blood is slipping from the wounds in Stiles' chest and on his head to Derek's hands but he doesn't move them away, just lets them become dark and slippery as he clings.

Stiles is shaken out of his own mourning—both for himself and for Derek and his obvious misery—when Scott's howl tapers off and he reaches for Stiles' body. Derek jerks it away from him with a snarl that sounds like he's got broken glass in his throat for how wrecked it is.

"Derek, _please_ ," Scott begs, and his Alpha eyes are so wet with sorrow they seem to bleed. "I know you're—you're hurting, but. We need to tell his dad. We need to take him home."

Lydia chokes on a watery sob at his words and Allison soundlessly reaches out and pulls her into a one armed embrace. Stiles stares at them both, unable to speak, unable to—anything. Yeah, he'd been pretty sure his friends would be pretty upset when the day came that his new life style caught up to him and his wolfy companions weren't around to slice and dice and save the day, but he'd never thought it would be like this.  
He'd never thought he'd see Isaac Lahey with glassy, haunted eyes, or Lydia Martin sobbing and undone. He'd never thought Allison Argent would stand there and be a shoulder to cry on over his death while looking like she needed one of her own, or that Jackson Whittemore the douchey former lizard would be staring at his body with genuine grief, rather than polite sorrow. He'd never thought strong and silent Vernon Boyd or fierce and confident Erica Reyes would need immediate comfort from each other, wide eyed and stricken and _broken_. He'd never thought Scott would be this much of a mess, shaking and sobbing and reaching with trembling claws to try and touch him, and he'd absolutely never thought he'd ever, _ever_ , see Derek _fucking_ Hale in real tears, curled over his cooling body with something wild and broken his eyes, clutching it like he would die if it were to be taken from him.

"Please," Scott repeats, and Stiles glances back at him in time to see him grab again.

Derek folds his upper half over the corpse and growls at him through his fangs. "No!" He buries his face into the blood-slick mess of Stiles' collarbone and repeats it, over and over again until the word shifts from English to something broken and drawn out, a low, meaningless whimper, until Stiles gets the impression that he's not just protesting Scott's request.

"Derek..." Stiles doesn't know what to say. of all the pack, Derek's the one he'd least expected to pull out the grabby hands on what is literally his lifeless corpse. They were long past the days of antagonistic frenemies, but even so, this is the kind of anguished possessive behavior he'd expect from someone like Scott, his best friend since forever.

Instead, Derek's refusing to allow Scott to even touch him. It's odd and unexpected and Stiles is really way over his head in this.

"I never signed up for this," he says suddenly, loudly. He's not too sure how the afterlife works but he's pretty sure somebody's supposed to be coming along and playing guide, like he's some lost little lamb. "Where the fuck are you? I never asked for this!"

"No-one ever asks for death, my glorious one, and yet all receive it."

Is that the sound of his heart breaking? Gotta be. Stiles turns at his mother's voice to find her standing gracefully next to the overturned table. She's wearing a glowing cream robe that flows around her feet as though a breeze is constantly ruffling it and a soft smile that turns sorrowful once he's facing her fully. "My Mischief, my boy. I have missed you so."

"Mom," Stiles croaks. He looks between them; Derek with his eyes bleeding despair and claws clasped tight to Stiles' empty body, and his mother with shimmering skin and stars in her hair. Time slows down. He runs to her.

She catches him as easily as though he were still four, and she young and strong. His best memories of her are from those days when she had seemed an angel to him, much like she does now. Her skin is soft and smells like the strawberry lotion she used to love, and Stiles presses as close as he can to the familiar and much cherished scent, closer. The robe tickles his nose when his mother raises her arms and wraps them around his shoulders. She palms the back of his head and pulls it down to rest in the crook of her neck, where the smell of her is strongest. He sobs.

"I don't want to—rush you, Stiles, but we shouldn't stay here for too much longer."

 _You really are an angel,_ Stiles muses. All he needs to do is think the words and suddenly he can see the displacement of air behind her back, the reason behind the ruffled robe. The wings aren't fully visible but he can make out the outline of them, the glimmer and glow of each feather as it shifts. They're folded now but he imagines they will spread out wide when he's _ready_ , when she'll take him wherever he's supposed to go.

He pulls away a little bit, so that he can look his mom—oh god, his _Mom,_ he'd missed her so much—in her warm eyes. They shine with tears and he watches one slide down her rosy cheek, isn't surprised in the slightest when she lifts one hand to his face and wipes away the moisture that's at his eyes too.

"You weren't supposed to die tonight," she tells him quietly. She looks past him to where the pack is gathered around his body, where Scott continues to reach for him and Derek continues to protest violently. He watches them for a moment before the sight of them grieving over him becomes too much. "You were meant to last for decades more. What happened tonight was an accident."

"Nothing happens on accident," he says as he turns back to her, because she used to laugh it over and over and over when he was young, when he broke a vase or pressed a painted hand onto clean walls or ran through the house with muddy feet. Nothing was an accident to her. "Besides, I'm not really—dead, right? I mean," he presses one of his hands into his chest, feeling the rhythm beneath his layers, "still got a heartbeat."

His mother smiles sadly and brings her other hand to cup the other side of his face. She pulls him down and kisses him on the forehead. "That is not your heart that you feel," she corrects, "but your spark, your magic. It is trying to keep you here when your body argues to leave." His mom looks him up and down and the smile quirks up a bit, even as it saddens more. "Can you hear it sing through your blood? It begs, _not yet, not yet, not yet._ The rest of you is trying to move on, as it rightfully should, but your spark will not let it. Do you know why that is, Stiles?"

"I can't," he starts, and then, "I don't—my spark? I don't know—Deaton said something, a while ago, but I don't—know. I don't know." Stiles closes his eyes, a little ashamed that he doesn't know, that he can't answer her. When he opens them after a few beats of her silence, his mom is gazing at him with adoring eyes that spark with her own grief.

"You should have lived a long life with the one who loves you by your side. You were not supposed to die tonight," she repeats firmly, and her eyes flash golden.

"Mom—" he starts, but the grip on his face tightens, and he can't speak. His mother's eyes start to glow and he can't hear anymore the broken sounds coming from behind them, can't register the newfound tugging at his feet that keeps him rooted in place even when instinct tells him to step backward.

" _You were not meant to die_!" The golden glow burns fierce and bright, like fire, as it grows and spreads. Stiles can't see anything other than the blaze of light. In a matter of seconds he is blinded.  
Then everything, every ache and bruise and pain that he's felt over the last day pierces him in a sudden, unbelievable agony as it rushes back into his body. Gone is the odd empty sensation from before; in its place, _fire_. For a split second, he is too overwhelmed to do anything. His mouth opens wide, ready to scream, but he chokes on the sound before it can spill from his lips. He's being stabbed over and over again, a thousand times over and over, and it's the absolute worst thing he's ever felt in his life, second only to the way he'd felt his mother's hospital room all by himself, watching her die. The part of him that doesn't feel like dying—admittedly, a very small part of him—feels betrayed by his mom, who called him into her arms and gave him this agony when he expected literally anything else. It sucks. It sucks almost worse than anything else that's happened to him, like having the king of all douches break into his house, destroy his sandwich, kidnap him, and then use him as a knife holder. He's gotta be honest though—dying in front of his friends, seeing and hearing them grieve over his broken body, _that's_ the worst.

It's difficult to concentrate on his thoughts, no matter how hard he tries, because he's never been in this much pain in his life, not ever. Seriously, _betrayed._ How could his mother do this to him?

Dimly, he feels her hands release him, but he can't do—anything, or the pain strikes through him again. Every breath is fire, every movement is ice.

"Remember me when you wake," his mother whispers into his ears, barely audible over the red haze of pain. "Remember me."

She kisses the tip of his nose and the burning light crescendos around him and he hears something high and wild and there's unbelievable pressure all over his body and—


End file.
